A/N: This is was my birthday present to myself written this morning. This
is my requiem for the end of a year, end of a lifetime, and beginning of a
new one. Dedicated to Vicky, not because this applies to her, but because
of our shared Birthday. The title "Requiem for Methuselah" is taken from
Episode 76 of the original Star Trek series. I don't own. You don't sue.
(And I know I'm a geek, but you're not going to comment on that in the
Requiem for Methuselah
I'm trapped inside the mirror
(Or my reflection is, at least).
It remains unchanging
On a day-to-day basis.
But, I suppose if I look back,
I will see that it's clouded
Like a memory shrouded in mist
Or a fog
Or a dream
Or anything opaque.
When I analyze it carefully,
I suppose there is change
(Physically speaking, that is)
Half an inch added to my bust,
(Not even noticeable)
An inch added to my waist,
(Not good at all, VERY noticeable!)
And a hundred inches added
To my overall unhappiness
About everything in general.
Why do I do this ever year?
(This analysis crap, that is)
Standing naked in front of
A full-length mirror to
Mentally dissect everything
I hate about myself.
And, completely humbled and self-conscious
I wait to be judged,
To be ridiculed,
To be hurt,
To provide entertainment
For my toughest critic.
I wish I didn't do this every year:
That I didn't dissect every moment
Of my life until it was a science.
I wish I still believed in magic
And not all this daily bullshit.
I wish God would give me some answers
And make me feel beautiful.
But that's all they are, wishes.
And after the candles are blown out
None of your wishes come true.
And you're left with a net
Of scars and former pain.
And you're left wondering
Where this crisscross pattern came from
And this one,
And this one,
And this one.
Pouring over old journal entries
(Another ritual of remembrance)
And living them like a new bruise.
These pages are about love and lust,
These pages are about depression and hate
For both the world and myself.
It all seemed so important
Once upon a time.
On days like April 21
And May 27
And June 16
And nearly the entire month of January.
I know that's where they come from
(The scars, that is).
I know it is days like those
When I would bleed,
When my skin would open.
But those lesions would eventually heal.
Because time heals all wounds.
But it all feels so contagious
Not to be myself and faceless
In a world that has no soul.
Most scars have faded to a dull white:
Barely noticeable, except one
Which is still a vivid pink
Because I would open it continuously.
I screw on my smile,
Displaying the perfect image
Of utter happiness.
They're smiling, reading bitter elegies
And raising their glasses
To times passed and better days.
I expect myself, at any moment,
To pull a Tom Sawyer
And walk in on my own funeral.
Or rise again as a phoenix born of the ashes
And a nest of flame.
But as the last candle is extinguished
And the fire slowly dies,
I hear them sing a bitter requiem
For my life